The Start of Something Big
by chained wing-ed one
Summary: Within the Walls of 221b Series - Ghastly reports are flying in from the States, potential outbreak would cause panic in anyone if you weren't living in 221b, where the strategies are already formed; more than ready to be put into action if need be. *AU - ZombieLock*
1. Impossible Beginnings

**_The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle._**  
**_The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss._**  
**_I do not own these characters, I'm just borrowing them for this idea._**  
**_- + -_**

* * *

The news reports were gruesome, but he couldn't take his brilliant eyes away from the anchorwoman. It was breaking news last week that there were cannibals eating peoples faces (_I told John it was the start of something big_) up and down the east coast, but they had been proven to be on drugs of some sort. This week the reports had drastically tripled in number and scale, with more reports coming in from the west coast and the no coasters (_fascinating zom-what the?_)

Sherlock turned to his friend when the television suddenly went dark. "John, there is something truly amazing happening around us and you, as a doctor, want to ignore it?" he questioned, seeing the remote control in John's hand. The disturbing news had been becoming increasingly distressing in the last few hours and it was all coming from America (_been ignoring the news all week, determination to disregard what frightens him_).

"Amazing!? You think that this news out of the States is amazing?" John protested, gesturing at the TV with the remote.

"Don't you? I would be a fascinating study if we could get our hands on one," Sherlock mused, eyes focused on the blank screen.

"Tah...fascinating. That is until it turned around and killed you, well maybe not you. I just... I can't imagine something like that happening over here. I don't want to," John added after a silent moment. Sherlock stared at his friend for several minutes. There was a haunted, faraway look in his eyes, almost scared.

"It frightens you, doesn't it?"

"Doesn't it you?" (_classic way of dodging the answer_)

"Only marginally. Though there is a high probability of the virus traveling over here from the States what with all the flights coming and going, though that's likely to stop shortly. If this is some sort of outbreak, they'll want to contain it as much as possible, like any sensible leader of the free world should do. But then there's potentially more to this than we've been told, with what hasn't been reported out of third world countries, but now that's going to change with word being broken out of America, reports of a similar sort will most assuredly begin to pour in from all over the world," Sherlock tried reassuring his friend, not realizing; or caring, that he was failing.

"You know." John shook his head solemnly at his flatmate. "Somehow that explanation doesn't entirely make me feel more comfortable. Jesus...zombies, I can't bloody believe it." He went silent, distant eyes fixed out the darkened windows of two two one b.

(_fear, pain, flashbacks, this could be a very bad situation for someone like John_) "You fear the prospect of war," Sherlock stated, making John's eyes dart to him. His brow furrowed as he tried to read the doctors face (_was it something I said?_) His tone had set John's eyes hard and suddenly Sherlock was seeing a John he had yet to meet.

"I am a soldier, Sherlock. I don't fear war." He stood from his chair; sliding it back several inches from his use of force, and walked to the windows overlooking Baker Street, parting the curtains.

"Then what is it?" Sherlock pushed gently from his own chair, turning to observe his flatmate.

"The panic and insanity that something like this is going to bring with it. If this does escape the States and infect other countries, as you so nonchalantly pointed out has most likely already come to pass, people will be killing each other left and right for a loaf of bread and some clean water. And those that don't have the stomach for death...are going to die slow and scared, possibly turning into one of those things in the process." John went quiet for several moments before speaking again, his voice as distant as his eyes (_he's thought about this as a real possibility?_). "People are going to panic, it's in a humans nature to panic, but when people panic extremely bad things happen to good, innocent people who have done nothing to deserve that sort of a fate," he sighed, turning back to Sherlock (_more than once it seems_).

"But dying is what people do, John."

"Thanks, Jim."

Sherlock looked aghast at John, almost unable to believe that phrase that had exited the doctor's mouth (_don't you dare compare me to that spider_). "Say that again?"

"You heard me. Moriarty said that exact same thing at the pool. I understand that dying is what people do. I've been privy to my fair share of it, enough to possibly last me two lifetimes, but that doesn't mean that I have to be cold, calloused, and calculated; like you, when it happens to innocent people." John turned back to the window as a soft rain began to fall (_you mean like a machine_).

"And if someone was trying to take something of yours?"

"Self defense, they wouldn't make it back out the door alive. I have no qualms about killing to protect those close to me, especially those who don't know how to fight," he added, thinking of Molly Hooper and Mrs. Hudson.

"And if it's one of them?"

"In a heartbeat. Bullet in the brainpan-"

"What if it was someone you knew?" Sherlock interrupted, stopping John's thought dead in its tracks. The paused before the doctor answered was long, longer than Sherlock would have liked (_too bog of a heart, John Watson, it's going to get you in trouble_)

"I'd like to say I'd be able to pull the trigger, but I can't know until I'm in that situation." His voice was deadpan, level, trained to sound calm even though his heart was reacting quite the opposite as John saw the scenes play out in his mind, it didn't end well for him so he decided to change the subject, sort of.

"If you died, would you want to come back as a reanimated corpse? Chewing on the flesh of the living, possibly of someone you knew?"

Sherlock smirked at the change (_unable to do it, figures_). "I wouldn't know I was doing it would I? They're essentially brainless. All they want to do is eat. It's their only real function and you can bet in the bigger cities they'll get just what they want, because people don't think when they're panicked."

"You've got a plan for all this?" John inquired. Sherlock's face tightened before he answered.

"Honestly, I've never thought about it before. The CDC; on more than one occasion, has said that a zombie apocalypse cannot feasibly happen. That it is impossible. But now here it is, staring us in the face." Sherlock gestured to the quiet television (_impossibilities seem to happen a lot these days_). "When have you thought about it at all?" he questioned tentatively (_sometime when he's been away, not focusing on living_).

"Heh. You tend to think of the strangest things when lying in a Vet Hospital waiting for your wounds to heal up," John admitted (_bugger_).

"So you have a plan?"

"Of sorts. A lot is very easy to get, so long as we get to it before the virus gets here, if it gets here," he added hopefully. "But yes, I have some idea of what we can do to keep ourselves safe from this. You'd have to be willing to do some heavy lifting though," John explained.

- To be continued... -


	2. How Quickly it Spreads

**_The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle._**  
**_The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss._**  
**_I do not own these characters, I'm just borrowing them for this idea._**  
**_- + -_**

* * *

As usual, Sherlock was right (_of course I was right_), numerous reports of zombie attacks began to flood the newsrooms; strangely though most were from well developed nations like China, Japan, and Australia, but the odd report from third-world countries was not uncommon. Though it didn't take very long for the virus to reach Great Britain. Maybe a week and a half after the mass of reports from America; which worried the rest of the world as they had stopped coming, and the growing reports from around the world, the first zombie report in England was out of the London Heathrow Airport. The plane had just landed from South America and the passenger passed out on her way off; she died of an allergic reaction believe it or not, and the crew hadn't been able to save her. Three minutes later she reanimated and killed four people quickly. Unfortunately, the whole incident had been aired live. All of Britain; Sherlock included, squirmed as the five citizens reanimated and were put down.

"If the woman's death tells us anything, it's that we don't have to be bitten to turn. She didn't have a mark on her," Sherlock said after the BBC News went off the air for a short time. John cast him a sideways glance (_not exactly a comforting thought_). They'd already taken several precautions, according to John plans. Mrs. Hudson's storage freezer had been brought up into the boys flat where it was holding some fresh food and several gallons of clean water. The fridge had been stocked with some fresh foods but like the cabinets had been stocked with canned foods and non-perishables, at least a years worth; before rationing (_if John doesn't let every Tom, Dick, and Harry into our home it could last longer_).

They'd spoken with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly about arrangements should the incident go completely viral and everything was set up. In anticipation, John had taken to carrying his Browning around with him at all times (_paranois and gross distrust of the public, not as stupid as I treat him sometimes_), it didn't exactly make him feel safer, but her certainly felt a bit more secure with it on his person.

"I don't want this, John," Sherlock protested when the doctor passed a second Browning to him.

"This is not up for debate. You agreed to do as I asked in this situation and I'm asking this of you. Carry this on you at all times, in case it goes F.U.B.A.R. and you aren't at home. It's for protection," John explained, closing the detective's hand around the pistol (_not complete bullshit_). "And don't give me that crap about being uncomfortable with firearms in public." He pointed at Sherlock with that same soldier look in his eyes.

Sherlock sighed, chambered a round, and flipped the safety before tucking it at the small of his back. John had actually been paying more attention to the news reports as of late (_acting like they're military intelligence reports, close enough when you really think about it_) and had taken to sleeping in the sitting room. Keeping both a sledgehammer and axe on the landing outside the flat.

(_this is utterly insane_) Riots were on the verge of starting and the public was quickly becoming paranoid that the government was hiding something from them about the outbreak (_people really DON'T think when they're panicked, feels like this is playing out like some sort of movie_). Sherlock climbed into bed as a news report began about a march through Trafalgar Square. He ignored it; knowing John would give him a full report in the morning, and quickly fell asleep.

(_bloody sirens, they must have started rioting_) Sherlock stirred in his sleep as sirens wailed around them. His brow furrowed when he recognized that they weren't police sirens, but the old World War II air raid sirens blaring throughout the city. He sat bolt upright and quickly launched into the sitting room. The TV was the only light source and the National Alert was scrolling across the screen.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the impossible has happened. There has been a massive zombie outbreak in greater London. The crowd of dead began in Trafalgar Square and are quickly making their way through the West End. We strongly urge all citizens to remain in their homes, lock your doors and windows, turn out your light and STAY indoors. We ask those in the West End to NOT try and flee your homes, there are simply too many to out maneuver and their numbers are growing. DO NOT try to reach your loved ones elsewhere, you don't want to end up one of them and above all else, DO NOT engage the walking dead. Barricade yourselves in your homes if you can and stay tuned for further updates. BBC One will be staying on the air as long as we can, please, stay safe," the anchorwoman stated, her voice breaking at the end.

She began the speech again and Sherlock looked around for John (_he's had to have seen this_). He wasn't in the flat. He rushed from the sitting room and nearly collided with Mrs. Hudson and Molly; as a precaution she'd been staying in two two one c.

"I can't believe it's really happening," Molly commented as she sat before the television, staring at the fresh images coming in. For the first time in his life, Sherlock's jaw dropped at the gruesome pictures and graphic live video feed (_my God...there are so many of them_). For a long moment his brain refused to work and the zombies crowded into homes, spilling blood across dark windows. One rushed the cameraman; who used the camera as a weapon and bludgeoned the creature with it before returning to filming.

"Sherlock!" John called, bringing the detective back into the flat. He trotted back onto the landing to hear the splintering of wood. "Make sure the ladder is close by, we're going to need it to get back up." He'd already destroyed the banister and was making his way down the stairs with the axe, swinging it into the wood and slowly making the seventeen stairs to two two one b vanish.

"What about Lestrade?" Sherlock found himself asking as he propped the stashed ladder against their kitchen door.

"He's on his way. Was near Trafalgar and got out of there when the shit hit the fan." The steady swing and thunk of the axe filled the air as the sirens persisted. A bang on the front door launched John down the steps, his Browning in hand. "Stay there, Sherlock."

"John open up!" Lestrade shouted, banding even harder.

"Did one of them get you!?" John shouted back through the wood, gun raised.

"One will if you don't let me in quick!" John ran to the door and unlocked it, allowing the inspector inside. His car had blood splattered on the windshield and a massive dent where he'd clearly hit someone...something. John's eyes widened as he looked down Baker Street. There they were, not shambling like predicted but walking, almost running like regular people. There were only a few differences, their skin tone and their eyes; and neither were human looking anymore. John shook his head, coming back to his senses and slamming the door shut, wedging an old pickaxe under the handle and locking each new deadbolt he'd installed.

"What the fuck happened?" John question the panting inspector as he closed and locked the frosted door.

"I honestly wish I could tell you, John. It was a royal clusterfuck and it...it just happened so goddamned quick. We had it under control, the huge mob of protesters in Trafalgar...," he paused, running a hand over his mouth. "God, almost all of them just dropped, simultaneously, four hundred people or more. The ones that didn't drop were as shocked as the rest of us and then...Christ, John they got up so quickly, going for the nearest person they could sink their teeth into," Lestrade's voice broke as he remembered fellow officers screaming as the dead tore into them. "I have never bailed on anything quicker. Is Molly upstairs?"

"And Mrs. Hudson. What happened to Donovan and Anderson?"

"They weren't there. I don't know if they're all right or not," Lestrade admitted, standing in a huff. John handed the inspector the axe and grabbed the sledgehammer for himself as pounding sounded on the front door. "We need to destroy these stairs quickly." He trotted up to the first landing and began to swing the hammer.

"John...?" Sherlock's voice was quiet (_what the hell is happening out there?_) and for a moment he looked like a child, terrified of some irrational beast in his closet.

"Turn the TV down, close the curtains and make sure all the windows are locked. Then get back here and make sure the ladder is ready when we've finished this," John ordered, returning to his work. Sherlock did as ordered, pausing as he looked out of the window overlooking Baker Street (_how did the get so numerous so quickly?, clearly the laws of fiction and reality are two very different paths_) and by the time he returned to the seventeen stairs that had once lead to two two one b were nothing more than splintered wood cluttering the breezeway.

"Jesus," he said in awe, unable to stop himself at the sight of the destruction.

"Lower the ladder." Sherlock hooked it on the sturdy hooks John had installed for this purpose and grabbed the axe as Lestrade came up first as the doctor's insistence (_noble until the very end_). John took much longer to get back upstairs, the sledgehammer weighing him down considerably, but soon rejoined his friend in their flat. Sherlock pulled the ladder from the hooks and heard glass shatter as the dead made their way into Speedy's.

"What the hell do we do now?" he asked, his voice low and replacing the ladder on the stairs to John's room (_now the ladies room_).

"We survive," John stated simply, his eyes no longer the ones of the kind John Sherlock had come to know. They were hard and set, like the soldier he had once been.

- To be continued... -


	3. On the Count of Mercy

**_The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle._**  
**_The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss._**  
**_I do not own these characters, I'm just borrowing them for this idea._**  
**_- + -_**

* * *

"I'm not going to make it," Mrs. Hudson's quiet voice stated. John looked away from her a moment, busying himself with re-wetting the handcloth and placing it around her neck. "Am I, John?" she asked, but he refused to say anything; not wishing to further destroy her. "Answer me, please," she whispered, placing a gentle hand on his; stilling his movement.

"If I can get your fever down," but his voice failed him when he cast his eyes to Mrs. Hudson's sweet, grandmotherly face; her eyes urging him to tell the truth. The doctor grimaced before answering, "The wound is infected, tetanus, and…. We just…we _don't_ have the antibiotics to treat you. I'm so sorry," he murmured in a very low voice. Mrs. Hudson sighed and leaned her head back against her pillow. In a zombie apocalypse, the way she was going to die was because of some rusty nail.

She cast her eyes to the wound in question. A ghastly looking cut that had happened _in_ the flat of all places; the boys had been insistent that she not venture out. Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes and asked, "What should we do, John?" He closed his own eyes, knowing exactly what needed to be done, but having no real idea how to go around it.

"Even if you die this 'natural' death, you'll still come back." She could hear the bitterness in his voice, of all the ways to go. "The Brazilian at Heathrow showed us that you don't need to be bitten to return. You'll die and you _will_ come back as one of them. The only way you won't come back…. The _only_ way…," John paused, struggling with the thoughts and pinching the bridge of his nose. He started at the hand on his knee. "It's okay," Mrs. Hudson reassured him. John swallowed hard and sat up a little straighter. "The only way is to destroy your brain. Kill you with a bullet to the head," he clarified.

Mrs. Hudson released a shuddering breath, she knew that would be the answer, but it was still a prospect she feared. "How long before the infection kills me?" she questioned, her eyes closed as a wave of nausea passed over her.

"Another few days, but it'll be agony," John stated blatantly, holding one of her aged hands in his.

"I don't want to live through that," she chocked, opening her eyes as a few tears escaped down her wrinkled face.

John swallowed hard again, hearing the plea in her voice. "I'll do it. I'll make it quick, painless as possible. Tonight if you want me to." His voice was mostly resolute, though it broke at the end. "Would you like to say good-bye?" he asked; his voice level once more, wiping a few tears from her face as Mrs. Hudson nodded. John gave her a weak smile and placed a kiss to her sweaty forehead. Her fever was on the verge of spiking, but it would never come back down. "I'll send them up," he whispered against her skin. John reluctantly released her hand and exited what had once been his room. He closed the door behind him and leaned against the banister; on the verge of hyperventilating, as he tried collect himself before heading downstairs.

The flat was beyond quiet, no one was talking; not even Sherlock. The only thing that could be heard was the occasional movement from upstairs and the constant moaning and groaning from those things outside (_we all know what they are, but it's like an unspoken pact to not call them by name, as if that would make them any less real_). Sherlock was pacing the small space between the armchairs waiting impatiently for John to return from checking on Mrs. Hudson. The doctors footsteps sounded heavy as he made his way down to the sitting room, giving them all pause. Three adults turned to him when he entered.

"Well?" Molly asked in her usual mousy voice. John merely shook his head solemnly, like a practiced physician (_no meds, he can't treat her properly, but…what is he going to do?_).

"You ought to go up first Molly," he said, pointing back the way he'd come. The lab tech stood up obediently and made her way upstairs as John walked to the dark windows overlooking the street, clasping his hands behind his back. Sherlock kept his eyes on John, trying to read the soldier, but it was almost impossible. He huffed through his nose in frustration. John had once been so very easy to read but in the three weeks since the infected had; seemingly, taken over London, John had become an almost completely different person, someone Sherlock had trouble knowing.

(_mind set, but he's not happy about his impending chore_) Lestrade gave Sherlock a questioning looking and pointed to John. Sherlock gave a shrug, this version of John was difficult to read and they'd had a number of conversations around that fact. Lestrade nodded to John and mouthed, "Talk to 'im." Sherlock rolled his eyes and paced once, twice more before making up his mind. He walked behind John, peering over the shorter man's shoulder onto the street. 'What are you going to do, John?" he inquired, hating the fact that he even had to ask the bloody question.

"Nothing good," he muttered in reply. He had been watching the dead meticulously ever since they'd closed themselves off and it was killing him to ignore the calls for help at their front door (_man of war with a big heart, my poor John_). He perked up when someone living began to run through the dead that crowded their street. The boy went down and his screams could be heard in the flat, causing the three grown men to squirm.

"Can't we do something for him?" Lestrade and Molly asked simultaneously. They all turned to her, completely unaware that she'd returned. "She wants to see you Greg," she whispered, coming to the opposite window, her brow furrowed as she looked to John; who was already pulling out his Browning and threading the silencer in place. Sherlock crossed in front of John to open the window and stood out of the way as the soldier took aim and fired, silencing the child instantly. Both civilians looked away, unable to watch the carnage of his brain spill out onto the pavement.

"Fuck," John breathed, holstering his gun at his back and slamming the window shut. His shoulders were tense as he leaned his forehead against the window. Sherlock raised an unsteady hand and placed it on John's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze.

"What…," Molly swallowed, doing her best to keep the bile from rising in her throat. "What are you going to do to her?" Sherlock cast his brilliant eyes to Molly, desperately wishing she hadn't asked that (_can't you just shut up for once in your life, Molly?_).

"What's necessary," he whispered, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear (_jaw set firmly, voice tight, doesn't want to do it, but he must_).

"And what is that?" Molly asked as Lestrade entered the room and stopped dead, feeling the tension in the room rise. John pushed from the window; slipping loose of Sherlock's steadying hand, and stood to his full height, which towered over Molly by five inches; even across the room. His face was set in stone and his eyes were hard.

"She is dying, Molly, and there is nothing I can do to help her. To fix her. If I let her live until she dies, she _will_ be in agony. Her fever will get higher and she'll begin to hallucinate until finally, _finally_ her body shuts down. And then she'll come back. And she'll _try_ to kill each and every one of us." John cast his eyes to each member of their small group, driving the point home. His eyes lingered on Sherlock; who nodded to show he got the point. "I am doing her /_and_/ us a favor."

The lack of emotion in his voice turned Molly's face ugly. "Can't you overdose her then? Be simpler and much less painful," she spat, crossing her arms heatedly.

"No," John said simply. "It's the brain that's needed to reanimate. If she dies with her brain intact, she _will_ stand back up. I don't have a choice here, Molly. If I did, I promise you I'd've done it," he spat back, his voice on the edge of defensive. Molly took a step back, visibly shaken by something in John's eyes that frightened her.

"She wants to see you, Sherlock," came Lestrade's voice, breaking the tension in the room some. The detective cast his eyes to John, who nodded upstairs before walking to the kitchen just to get away from the prying eyes of the lab tech. Sherlock sighed at his friend and stormed up the stairs, stopping short when he saw his landlady.

"Sherlock," came her kind voice, sad and strained.

"You've been there for me for a decade or more," he practically blurt out as he closed the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson smiled at the statement, making Sherlock's knees buckle beneath him. He had never lost anyone like this (_course there were never circumstances like this before_) and his body had no idea how to deal with it. He had no idea how to deal with it.

"Come 'ere," she said, waving him over with tired hands. He closed the space between them quickly and took her hands in his.

"I once said England would fall without you."

"England has already fallen, love," she points out with a small giggle, that forces one from Sherlock's throat.

"I can't imagine Baker Street without you," he whispered, his own honesty surprising him.

"You have John," she commented with a smile, cupping his long face in her hands. "You'll be fine, so long as you _listen_ to him. Look me in the eyes and promise me that you _will_ listen to him." She shook his face gently, forcing him to look at her. Tears brimmed his pale eyes as he nodded and whispered, "I promise," under his breath.

"Good boy," she smiled, forcing a few tears from her eyes.

Sherlock gulped and leaned down unexpectedly; wrapping his arms around his landlady as best and as tightly he could. "You have been a mother for me when mine wasn't there. When mine didn't want to be. I can…_never_ thank you enough for that," his voice grew thick in his throat, refusing to come out as little more than a sob (_getting emotional, Holmes, collect yourself before going downstairs, can't afford this grief_).

"Stay alive as long as you can, that's thank you enough," she whispered in his ear, giving him a gentle squeeze before he sat up and brushed the few tears from his face.

"I shall never delete you, Mrs. Hudson," he said, forcing a polite smile onto his face; though the corners of his lips endeavored to turn down. Sherlock leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes. I'm glad to have had you and John as residents here," she smiled when Sherlock pulled away. He gave a shuddering breath and stood from the bed almost immediately, unable to handle the emotions.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Hudson," he said over his shoulder, before yanking the door open and rushing down the stairs. He braced the doorjamb with his hands, hunkered his sharp shoulders and leaned his head against the kitchen door when he reached the landing; occasionally banging it lightly against the wood in frustration. Molly watched him from the sofa, but had no idea how to handle it. Her eyes narrowed at John as he stepped forward and took Sherlock into a hug; one arm around his shoulders, the other around his waist.

"She means a lot to us all, we'll never forget her," John said quietly, gently rocking Sherlock to and fro as the detective's long arms wrapped around his frame. Lestrade sat beside Molly and watched the exchange knowing Sherlock had never lost someone like this.

"Don't let her suffer," Sherlock whispered before letting go of John and walking into the kitchen; gripping the table until his knuckles turned white. John stood there for a long moment before slowly making his way upstairs.

"Don't let him suffer, John," she said when the doctor entered the room, gun in hand.

He smiled wearily before answering, "I'll do my best." John walked forward and sat on the bed, extending his arms to pull his landlady into one final hug. "I'm sorry this happened to you," he muttered quietly. "So fucking sorry."

"It's okay, John. It's fine, it's all fine, just do it," Mrs. Hudson whispered, gripping John tightly around the middle as she felt the silencer press against her temple.

"Close your eyes."

The silencer makes a whisper of the gunshot, but they all hear it; hell, they all feel it.

- To be continued… -


	4. To the Breaking Point

**_The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle._**  
**_The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss._**  
**_I do not own these characters, I'm just borrowing them for this idea._**  
**_- + -_**

* * *

John momentarily froze; unable to think or breath, feeling Mrs. Hudson's body go limp in his arms. The moment dragged on and on and on, until John shook himself back into his senses and moved quickly to remove her from the bed. Molly would still have to sleep up here, maybe not tonight, but still. He scooted from the bed, cradling her body to the floor; taking as many sheets from the bed as he could in the process and laid his landlady's body on the floor, wrapping her tightly in the fabric.

He pulled back and saw her peaceful face one last time before covering her with the white cloth. Opening his mouth to say something…anything, John couldn't find the right words and nothing came out. He sighed heavily and stood, watching as her blood stained the pristine sheets dark red. John turned from the sight; one not entirely foreign to him, to see that brain matter splattered part of the room and had already stained through the remaining sheets to the bed. John looked back to Mrs. Hudson; his face solemn and almost broken, before he ripped the remaining sheets and blankets from the bed; flipping the mattress as he yanked the fitted sheet up.

It was only when he rolled them up and placed them under her head like a pillow that John noticed her blood had stained his jumper as well. He stared long and hard at the mocking blood splatter. _Her favorite_, he thought and slowly stripped himself of the garment. He folded it carefully and replaced the sheets beneath her head with it. John unrolled the sheets and wrapped them around her body before finishing off with the ruined blanket, the one she'd made for him just after he moved in.

John stood and looked at his worked, satisfied that it was the proper thing to do. He stood straight up and stalk still with his chin raised high and eyes forward for three long minutes. He closed his teary eyes and released a shuddering breath before making the soldiers turn and leaving the room. He closed the door behind him and nearly fell to pieces, only just catching himself on the banister to avoid falling hard to his knees as they gave out beneath him.

Dead…Mrs. Hudson dead; two words he would rather _not_ use in the same sentence, and not by some flesh eater, fate certainly had a cruel sense of irony. It took John over twenty minutes to gather himself; slow his breathing, stop his crying, before he even attempted walking back downstairs. He gathered himself with one last deep breath and turned into the sitting room. Molly's eyes were on him, hard and filled with tears, her head on Lestrade's chest. He noted that they were holding hands and the sight made him crack a half smile at them.

Molly's eyes narrowed dangerously, but John held up a tired hand, his face suddenly pained. He knew exactly what she wanted to talk about, but he…he just couldn't…. Not right this second anyhow. Lestrade pulled Molly closer, feeling her shudder in either fear, sadness, or anger; probably all three. John turned from the couple to look for Sherlock, but he wasn't where he'd left him. He turned back to Lestrade and nodded his head to where Sherlock had been, a questioning look on his face. Greg pointed to Sherlock's room, his face grim as he pressed a gentle kiss to Molly's forehead.

Greg cast his eyes to the ceiling quickly and John gazed at Molly a moment before shaking his head. The inspector understood, pulling the blanket from the back of the sofa over their two bodies, settling further into the soft cushions. John sighed quietly and gave Lestrade a curt nod before walking to Sherlock's bedroom. They'd been sharing it since this whole mess started, but that didn't stop John from knocking before entering. From the reaction he witnessed, he figured it was better to announce himself.

There was no verbal response from the other side, just the sound of…was that crying he was hearing? No, not crying, sobbing. John opened and closed the door silently and stood just watching Sherlock for a long time. His shoulders were hunkered; occasionally shaking as Sherlock released a strained sob, his hands framing the window he stood before, hips cocked to one side in an off balance stance, and his head was hanging low.

John stood there far longer than he intended, but he'd never seen Sherlock like this before and he found it morbidly fascinating. After nearly ten minutes, he finally opened his mouth to say something, only his brain could articulate the right words to make his friend feel any better. Huffing, he took several strides forward and gripped Sherlock around the middle, startling the detective some; though he didn't move when John settled a hand over his heart and the other around his waist.

John could feel the man shudder beneath his gentle grip, could feel the rapid pulse of Sherlock's heart through his ribcage and wished nothing more than to be able to properly say he was sorry for his loss. As a surgeon, he'd said it often enough, to widows and orphans, but he couldn't bring himself to say it to Sherlock; the loss still too near to his own heart. John buried his face between Sherlock's shoulder blades, gently hushing him and occasionally kissing the sharp points of his friends figure.

Sherlock dropped his arms; making John grip him tighter to keep them both tipping into the window, and placed a hand over each of John's; interlacing their hands over his heart. His heart felt…heavy, like a huge weight had been set upon it and like it was having trouble beating. Sherlock had only felt like this once before in his life, when his father walked out of their lives, and yet this was somehow enormously different to that pain. He gulped and turned in John's arms, quickly cupping his face and pressing their lips together, if only for the sensation of feeling something besides this ache in his chest.

The doctor, though startled at first, returned the kiss, softly and without much want, feeling what his friend wanted, needed from him. When Sherlock pulled back, his breath catching in his throat, John brushed the tears from Sherlock's ashen face. It was strange to see those brilliantly bright eyes bloodshot, the effect giving his eyes an unnaturally haunted look. The sight pulled the corners of John's lips into a frown as he pulled the detective into a bear hug. He could feels Sherlock's tears on his exposed skin and hated their sting.

With his mind overstretched by the emotions he was feeling, Sherlock fell limp in John's arms after several minutes. The doctor nearly collapsed under the sudden dead weight of his friend, but managed to steer Sherlock to his bed; back facing the door and the rest of the flat. He laid Sherlock on his side; removing his shoes before placing his too long legs beneath the covers. John knelt by his face for a moment, brushing dark curls from his face. John's eyes said much to Sherlock; though his brain wouldn't interpret the sayings until the morning, they said _I'm sorry, love, go to sleep, I'm so sorry_.

John placed the same gentle kiss to his friends forehead as he had his landlady before he stood, making to leave when Sherlock's hand shot out to him, pulling him back and and asking him to stay without words. He gave the detective a sad, tired smile as he toed his shoes off and climbed carefully over him to settle in at his back; spooning protectively next to Sherlock. John pulled the comforter over them, tangling their feet beneath the covers, then draped one arm over his body and placed his hand; once again, over his heart, finally feeling that pulse slow as a languid hand embraced his own.

He placed several soft kisses to the exposed shoulder before him and slowly ran his free hand through Sherlock's curls. John kept time in his head, it took the detective over and hour and a half to fall asleep and he didn't stay awake much longer than that.

- To be continued… -


	5. Perchance of Terror

**_The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle._**  
**_The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss._**  
**_I do not own these characters, I'm just borrowing them for this idea._**  
_I sincerely hope this format is understandable. It's supposed to be unsettling and jarring, much like a night terror, which this is._  
**_- + -_**

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_Blood splat-t—e—-r—s on the dirt, i contrast to the greyandtan world around it. The midday sun b-u-r-n-s and blinds me, but I can see the bitsofboneandbrai the air as the body_  
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_s in slow motion beside me. It's no one _I_ know, at least that's what I tell myself, an an r. None of these things are anyoneIknow…and somehow that makes it easier for me to p—u—l—l the trigger. I get to my feet a as the thicksand allows me and make a r-u-n for it with so-many- of- ethings on my tail;_  
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_ g in the hot sand just like me. The run back to B—-r S—t is muc than I remember, but that sand is only part of the problem, suckingatmyfeet as I run. I don't remember B—-r S—t being tha y, I know I'm still on Park Road, I can see the bend where it becomes B—-r S—t but those things are crowdingmypath. I le litany of shots, finding the head with each one and each one_  
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_s to the dirt but there are _always_ more where they came from. A gust o dand blinds me for a moment and I feel one of them at my back. I swing wildly, s-m-a-s-h-i-n-g the things temple with the butt of my gun. I make a run for it once more, busting through the thick,_  
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_ crowd with relative ease and finally make the turn onto B—-r S—t, where it' r. The sun is still blazing in the sky, the san in whirlwinds, but not a single…nota_**single**_oneofthem. I turn back and there aren't anymore behind me, d. I take a few steps in the_  
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_ g sand before breaking into a run, I don't want to risk anything. I swiftly pull the keys from my pocket and (un)lock the door as I reach it. I chance a glance back and there theyar n, moaning and_  
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_ towards me, their arms reaching out to me with their grabbing, s-c—r—-a—t—-c—h—-i—n—-g fingers clawing the air, unable to wait to rip into my flesh. I sneer an my way into the flat, slammingthedoor behind me and lock(ing) each deadbolt once again. My announcement of "I'mhome," is drowned out by the **POUNDING** on the door and the near caterwauling of the thingsbeyond the wood. I lock the frosted door and make my way back up the ladder, suddenly_  
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_g back down and staring at the red stainingmyhands. I look up and notice the red dripping_  
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_ n to the remains of the stairs still scattered here. A crashing sound from twotwoonea draws my attention and I hear the moaning from Mrs. Hudson's old flat. My face tightens, her door was _**never**_ secured. I race up the ladder as the wood splinters and they come_  
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_ g in; slipping in the slick liquid only once more before I'm on the landing and yankingtheladderfree from their prying hands. I realize how fast my heart is beating and toss the ladder aside, taking a seat and staring down at them as theycrowdthebreezeway. A duststorm blocks the light and the sound of them m-o—a—-n—-i—n-g seems to become LOUDER in the dark. I whinge at the noise and stand, just barely catching myself as my fee in blood. The storm lets up enough for me to see the red trail…. It's come_  
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_ n from upstairs. My head shoots up to find the door to Molly's roo n. I follow the blood trail to the sitting room andnearly vomit at the sight. Mrs. Hudson is upandaround, pale as the moon and chewing…no, g-n—a—-w—i—-n—g on Lestrade's hand; s—u—-c—k—-i—n-g the flesh from his once well weathered fingers, while Molly is_  
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_into his stomach and r—-i—p—-p—i—-n—g his intestine t. My stomach_  
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_s as the organs make wet, slapping noises as they snapfromthepull. The blood at my feet must be a mixture ofthemall. I can see th of skinandmuscl from Molly's right arm. There's no blood trail to Sherlock's room, maybe he had the sensetosta y…maybe. I move silently in t o the room but Molly's head s-n-a-p-s to me inaninstant; her glazed eyes_  
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_g at me, and suddenly the room goes pitchdark as the sandstorm rages with new ferocity. I pull my gun and run blind for Sherlock's room, hearing Molly g-n-a-s-h her teeth at me. I shoulder his doo and c—u—t Molly's dead fingers off as I spin to slamitclosed. I lean against it, breathing hard and trying to keep Molly o u-t. "Sherlock," r, trying to find him in the dark. The storm lets up,_  
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_n g **heavily** against the bedroom windows and my heart_  
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_s. I can already see it before he turns to me with his perfectlips curled in a snarl over his teeth. "Sherlock, no…no. God, no," I beg, the gun_  
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_g from my fingers. The clink draws his attention for a _moment_, but it's not long before he's on me, staring at me with those brilliant ice blue ice tinteduglybythevirus. "Fuck," I say as his head s-i—n—k-s low and his teeth t—-e—a—-r into my neck. I scream but don't fight, I could _**never**_ fight Sherlock, notreally. My own blood spills down my front as Sherlock yanks his head back, taking a goo of my neck with him. My eyesrollback as I_  
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_e to the floor and it's not long before my worldgoescompl-e—t—-e—l—-y—b—-l—a—-c—k._

John shoots up in Sherlock's bed, a scream caught in his throat as his hand frantically searches for the chunk of flesh Sherlock had taken from it, but there's nothing missing, no blood on his hands. He stares at his hands, not realizing he's holding his breath, the blood that had coated them is gone and it's only as he begins to breath again that John realizes that his nightmare had been the most bizarre mix of two very different wars. His breath catches in his throat again and John feels only one thing, a violent need to vomit.

- To be continued… -


End file.
